


take me back to the feeling when everything was left to find

by altissimozucca



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Depression, Mentions of Death, Overdose, Roman Catholicism, Suicide, This Is Sad, This is not Happy, This is pure angst, read the tags, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21691999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altissimozucca/pseuds/altissimozucca
Summary: Charles didn’t know what he was doing there, in a church with his own namesake; was he confessing or just seeking revelation, a guide to show him how to get out of the melancholic state he had been in for years?translation to chinese available
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Giada Gianni, Charles Leclerc/Jules Bianchi (one-sided), Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc/Pierre Gasly (one-sided)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	take me back to the feeling when everything was left to find

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [[乐扣中心]带我回到万物初始时](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25851718) by [NorthArctic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthArctic/pseuds/NorthArctic)

> Please read the tags before you continue with this. This is heavy and angsty and there are mentions of suicide. 
> 
> Also, as 90% of Monegasque people are Roman Catholics, I decided to go with it for this story. I have been thinking of this for a while and finally wrote it.

**The soft thudding** of rain over the bonnets of various vehicles broke the eerie silence of the October night. It was unusual for the bustling streets of Monte Carlo to be so empty, but the haunting image fit with how Charles had been feeling lately – abandoned, gloomy and cold.

His feet felt heavy as he walked down the Boulevard des Moulins, hands tucked in the pockets of his black coat as rain slowly picked up. In his hand, he was clutching the handle of a dark umbrella, closed as the droplets wetted his unruly hair; Charles shut his eyes as a heavy drop fell upon his forehead and slid down his cheek over the path formed by tears he’d cried earlier.

His mind felt heavier than his feet as he found himself reminiscing the days before it all spiralled downwards, into the abyss of monotonous melancholy he found himself in, never at its worst but never far off, either. His life was one giant tragedy and he was the unlucky protagonist, made to fall before his time despite doing his best to keep fighting.

Charles stopped at the staircase leading towards Église Saint-Charles, looked left and right before crossing the empty street and climbed towards the church, heart heavy from the weight he’d been carrying. Stopping in front of the large gates, he wondered whether he should just go home and get it over with. “No, you’re here for a reason,” he told himself, letting out a sigh as he entered the empty building.

As soon as he entered, Charles felt ready to turn around and leave, but despite that, he dipped his fingers in holy water and did the sign of the cross before sitting in the back row, ignoring the clenching in his chest. With his fingers intertwined, he closed his eyes and tried to find the peace he was searching for.

_“Au nom du Père et du Fils et du Saint-Esprit. Amen.”_

He felt small underneath the scrutiny of the cold, frozen eyes of the statues of various saints; he was scared of looking forward, of seeing the image of the Saviour staring back at him and sensing the disappointment over the state of his thoughts and what he was planning on doing if serenity never came.

The bottle of high-end champagne in his kitchen cabinet and the wide array of medicine in his bathroom seemed to be calling him more and more the longer he sat there with his eyes closed, thinking about nothing in particular but everything at the same time; his chest was heavy, his breathing quickened and his palms were sweating as he thought about what to do and what to think.

_Truly, what does one do when they visit the church for the first time in five years?_

_If there was God wanting to save you, Charles, he’s long gone by now. _

_Go home._

_“Notre Père, qui es aux cieux,”_ he began praying in his head, mumbling the words along quietly, as if afraid someone would overhear. Charles didn’t know what he was doing there, in a church with his own namesake; was he confessing or just seeking revelation, a guide to show him how to get out of the melancholic state he had been in for years?

It was his own fault. He brought the darkness upon himself, back when he was fifteen and in love with Jules, although the older man never knew that; it was the first time Charles felt as if he was sinning, thinking about another man – one much older than him – alone in his bedroom with nothing but the moon and his own guilt to keep him company.

Then he lost Jules and his whole world came crashing down, leaving only rubble in its wake, a burning metropolis in place of his head and a gaping wound on the left side of his chest; Jules was the one who was gone, but with him, died a piece of Charles, too.

He didn’t have the enough time to recover from losing Jules before he lost his father, too. Charles had just worked through the third of the five stages of grief when his father’s death struck him, leaving him to go through it all again; he felt stuck in an endless loop of the fourth, depressing stage, never truly accepting that both of them were gone.

Charles let out a sigh, feeling a tear drip from the corner of his eye. He wiped it away hastily, biting his bottom lip to stop it from quivering before clutching his fingers together again, _“Je vous salue Marie.”_

It felt wrong to be thinking about Giada while sitting in a church, praying to Virgin Mary when it was infidelity that took away the only true love in his life - other than Jules; while Jules was the image of everything wrong with Charles, Giada was the complete opposite – sweet, charming and nice, a woman every man would want.

He fucked that one up himself.

It was realization of what he’d done after he lost her that broke him for the third time in such a short period of time; Charles knew that what they had was too far gone for him to even try getting her back, and he would be the first person to tell her that she was making a mistake if she ever did so. Instead, he let her vent out her frustrations, rightfully blame him for what had happened, and then she left, not looking back at the man who ruined what they had singlehandedly.

When Anthoine died, he wasn’t surprised at all. It seemed like the skies were plotting against him, throwing everything they had at the young man and expecting him to go get out unscathed, still standing. That’s what he did, winning at Spa for the first time in his life, the taste of champagne reminding him of poison and he didn’t have the antidote; when he got into his hotel room, Charles felt himself meeting the bottom of the bottomless pit of desperation and darkness.

_“Gloire au Père, au Fils et au Saint-Esprit.”_

Charles didn’t feel anything. He sat there, citing the prayers he’d been taught at a young age, eyes shut closed, lips moving as he whispered the words leaving bitter taste in his mouth; he wasn’t worthy of forgiveness, wasn’t worthy of saving after all the pain he put others through.

He was supposed to remain strong, fight everything bad coming at him; he was an upcoming champion, a young talent in the world he has been a part of his whole life. He was one step away from reaching his dreams, but he felt unable to take it, the hurt in him greater than anything else he was feeling.

Charles was hiding beneath both a real and a metaphorical balaclava, leaving only his emotionless but at the same time overly emotional eyes for the world to see.

He stood up, keeping his fingers intertwined as he walked towards the altar; he knelt beneath the image of the Lord, did the sign of the cross and whispered, “Lord, forgive me for what I’m about to do.” There was no reply, only silence of the empty building and the soft thuds of raindrops hitting the stained glass of the windows.

Charles straightened his posture, shot one last glance at the altar before leaving the church and all hope with him.

As he made his way back down the staircase, back down the Boulevard des Moulins, he thought about Pierre. Pierre, his friend from childhood days; Pierre, who was one true good in Charles’ life at the moment; Pierre, who never judged Charles for his advances on the Frenchman while letting him down as gently as possible.

Charles could never forget the frightened look on Pierre’s face as he kissed him, lips salty from the tears he’d cried and then Pierre was gone, leaving Charles all by himself. It was no wonder Cate wouldn’t look at the Monègasque anymore – if he was in her place, he wouldn’t either.

In a sense, Charles was glad Pierre pushed him away on that solemn night in September; it would’ve ended with two broken hearts, neither of which would’ve belonged to Charles.

Charles eyed the familiar building in front of which he stood, reminiscent of the quiet nights in spent with Max before their rivalry sky-rocketed and Charles burnt that relationship to the ground to. He couldn’t call it a true relationship, though, but a way of keeping both of their emotions at bay and ruining each other and their significant others at the same time.

Charles was glad that Max was as spontaneous as him, both of them seeking the other at random times; they needed a distraction from everything and seemed to find it in each other, aware of the heavy weight that they both carried.

It wasn’t a good way of dealing with it, but it worked and if Max didn’t have trouble with cheating, who was Charles to judge.

He continued on, the rain from before picking up again and he let it wash over him, making his clothes stick to his skin. He moved his eyes up towards the sky, the gloomy, dark clouds making his chest clench. Charles finally got to his own flat, made his way inside, both mind and heart empty.

He walked into the kitchen, took the black and gold bottle of champagne sitting on the counter and made his way towards the bathroom where the array of pills sat next to the sink. Opening up a few bottles, he grabbed them into his hand, the colourful choice contrast against the darkness growing in Charles.

Content with himself, at least for once in his life, he sat in the bathtub and opened up the Carbon, inhaling the familiar scent and feeling calmness fill him up; he took a swing, just to taste it one last time, before shoving the handful of pills into his mouth and downing them with the bitter alcohol, letting the rest of it wash over him.

He closed his eyes, a sigh escaping past his lips as he slowly lulled into sleep from which he’d never wake up, heart empty, mind empty and chest empty as he slowly succumbed into darkness for all eternity.

**Author's Note:**

> “Au nom du Père et du Fils et du Saint-Esprit. Amen.” - In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
> 
> “Notre Père, qui es aux cieux." - Our Father, who art in heaven.
> 
> “Je vous salue Marie.” - Hail Mary.
> 
> “Gloire au Père, au Fils et au Saint-Esprit.” - Glory be to the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.
> 
> [tumblr at altisssimozucca](https://altisssimozucca.tumblr.com/)


End file.
